


Wayward

by nokkakona



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:38:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nokkakona/pseuds/nokkakona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DISCONTINUED. Sam always felt like something was missing. AU in which Sam and Dean never got the chance to grow up together. Will possibly be updated, but can also be read as a sort of angsty/tragic oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sam

All his life Sam felt like something was missing.

He made friends, but never  _good_  friends. No one seemed to click. Not his classmates, not his teachers, not the sweet girl who liked to call him her boyfriend in high school. Everything he did seemed wrong, and when he tried to make decisions it was like he was trying to make them for two different people. He threw himself at dreams and never picked himself up when they failed. He didn't have anyone to pick himself up for. His only family was his father – an alcoholic mechanic who could never seem to stay in one place long enough for Sam to settle down.

He sometimes wondered why he was like this. Was it because he'd never known his mother? Was it because his father never told him he was proud of him? Or was it something else? There were other things he wondered; like why there were no pictures of his parents before he was born, or why John never talked about the policeman who came by every once in a while with 'no news'. But he never asked – and so he never questioned the lack of answers.

And then he found the birth records.

At first he thought they were his. They were stuffed in the darkest part of his dad's closet, back behind the guns and the uniform and the bad memories. The manila folder they were in was water-stained and worn at the edges, clearly untouched for years. Had they been anywhere else other than stuffed in dad's 'things to forget about' closet, he would have assumed they were his.

But the date of birth was all wrong: January 24, 1979. Sam didn't even know anyone with that birthday – let alone anyone related to him. As he flipped through the manila folder, he began to piece things together from the pictures and the medical sheets and the certificates of death. He began to understand why dad never talked about mom, and why dad never kept lighters in the house. He figured out why there were no pictures and why, above all else, he felt so alone.

The birth certificate was at the end of the folder, neatly laminated to protect it from being forgotten.  _Name of child (print or type): Dean Winchester._

John and Mary's first son.

He didn't believe it at first because he  _couldn't_  believe it. But everything fit. Everything came together and everything made sense. Because whoever this child had been – Sam's older brother, John's first son, a four year old with blonde hair and green eyes and freckles and who bore no resemblance to Sam at all – when he died, more lives than his own had been taken. Including Sam's.

It took Sam a few days to finally accept it, and after that, there was almost nothing he could do but live. He lived with the grief of his father's recent death and the death that had taken place 30 years ago that he shouldn't even be grieving. In the back of his mind, he knew that he didn't have the right to feel everything he was feeling. His father had known Dean. Had raised him to four. Had seen his first steps, heard his first words, and then had all that torn away from him with an accidental flick of some cigarette ash.

But Sam had never known Dean. He'd always known that he was only six months old when his mother had perished in that fire. He didn't recognize the little boy with the bright smile and the pudgy hands that dominated the secret cache of pictures hidden away in the closet. All he knew was that everything he felt over his death was real, and it hurt. He was angry that  _Dean_  had gotten to know Mary and he was angry that  _Dean_  had known what it felt like to have his father come to a little league game. He was angry at Dean because he had been born and had known everything Sam never had.

He was also angry that Dean had died. He was angry because there were no conflicting schedules and none of Dean's friends to make fun of him and that he never got to be somebody's lame kid brother. He was angry because all his life he had searched for an answer to why he felt so incomplete, and it had been here all along, in the scary closet with all the other things John Winchester wanted to forget. He had been neglected and exhausted and  _lied to_  all his life, and now that his father was dead, he didn't even have anyone to be angry at.

At the end of the day, he was still alone. And knowing that things should have been different – well, that just made it worse.


	2. Dean

All his life, Sam felt like something was missing.

Sure, he was charming. He had a girlfriend and a job and an okay salary. Really, he couldn't complain. He was better off than the average Joe, and he was grateful for that. For the most part.

But there was always something. He'd finish a project and he'd have a nagging feeling that he'd forgotten something – something very important. He'd feel anxious for days until he forgot about it, or he'd have a beer to force himself to get there sooner. Everything had to be perfect – everything had to be right. It felt like he was trying to fill a hole that he didn't know was there. The feeling of being lost and alone got so strong that sometimes he lashed out.

His therapist told him that what was missing were his real parents. Sam always scoffed a little at that, because he knew who his  _real_  parents were. His real parents were the Flints, the couple who had adopted him when he was six. As for his  _biological_  parents, all he had from  _that_  life was a bump on the head and a name stuck in his head on repeat –  _Sam._

But he knew that his therapist probably had a point. When he was a kid in the foster home, he'd make up stories about kings and wizards and aliens from outer space. Everyone knew they weren't true because they were so fantastic, and little Sam knew it too, somewhere in the back of his mind, but that didn't stop him from believing. He stopped talking about what he believed at nine, when he got his first taste of what the bigger kids did to freaks in Chicago public schools, and even after he started to realise that his parents probably had been human, he never quite gave up on the idea that his backstory was something amazing. Something that he could be proud of, even if he'd never had it.

And then he got a lead.

It was small – just the clothes he had been found in, tiny checkered pyjamas with worn and unreadable initials stitched onto the back. For kicks, he had sent them to a police officer friend he had to see if he could trace anything from them. He hadn't really been expecting anything. But then the phone call came and Sam learned that all those years ago, he had escaped from a fire.

It didn't lend any new information about his biological parents or about why he felt so alone, but it was something new and something exciting. Sam called up his mom to tell her about it, and then for the first time in 30 years, he started asking questions.  _Where did they find me? Did I have an accent? Do you think I could go back there, to Kansas? See if there are any records of fires on that date?_

It all seemed so easy. He could just take his vacation days, hop in a car, and play Sherlock for a bit. Maybe he'd even find what he had been looking for – the part of himself that had been missing all these years. Maybe for once, he wouldn't be so alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No yeah, I updated it.


	3. Winchester

Dogs were easy. Dogs, Sam got. They liked chew toys, premium beef, and long walks to anywhere. They greeted you when they came home and stuck by your side until you left. Not once had Sam met a dog he couldn't get along with.

But people – well, people were a different matter. Sam didn't like people so much. The best kinds of people were the dead ones – the ones in his history books, whose heroic tales defied anything anyone he knew could ever do. They just didn't make people the same anymore. Not that Sam would really prefer Henry IV's company over a dog's, though.

Every once in a while, however, someone would come along and make him think, hey, let's walk our dogs  _together_.

And after everything that had happened, he really needed that person. For a while, he shut down. It was like having the air let out of his body and all the energy drained. He took a few days off work and let himself grow numb. He didn't need alcohol to help. He just needed to think – poisonous thoughts that plagued him night and day and didn't help anything. His dog Bones scratched at his door, but he ignored him. His best friend phoned, but he didn't answer.

He grieved on his own for what seemed like forever, but then one day, he felt a little better. It was just a little – enough to notice the sun outside and give his dog a pat on the head. So he went for a walk, and he met her - Jessica. She'd been with him at Stanford, but he'd never really gotten to know her then. She had a goofy smile and soft golden hair and almost as much energy as his dog. She liked to joke that the only reason he liked her was because she reminded him of Bones. He played it off, but to be honest, there was probably some truth in it. But that didn't matter, because for a little while, she made him feel like he wasn't so alone.

Even if it was only temporary. (Everything was.)

"You're looking for someone else, Sam. Not me." That was her excuse to, "take a break."

Of course, Sam wasn't angry. He rarely was anymore. Besides, he understood why she was doing it. Neither of them really had time for each other – they only liked to be around _someone_ , not the other specifically. It was a union of necessity rather than emotion, and Sam understood that.

Still, he felt like he was being abandoned  _again_ , and all he could do was stand there and nod.

The next day when he got home, there was a six pack on his doorstep and a message on his phone. "He-e-y, Sammy. Heard about Jessica and thought I'd drop by and so you could spend some quality man time with the man." He recognized the voice instantly as Gabriel. He could practically hear the wink. "But  _you_  weren't  _there_ , so I just left you a little present to help you express your feelings. Call me, if ya want. Or if ya don't. Either way, you're gonna call me. Later Sasquatch."

Sighing, he reached to delete the message.

" _Oh!_ Forgot to mention, some big city client is flying in today at the airport. Twelve o'clock flight from Memphis. Boss wants you to milk 'im for all he's worth, so naturally, he said you'd pick him up. I'd do it, but I don't actually have a car. So if that's all good, I'm going to hang up. Bye now, Sammy."

He shut his eyes and listened to the tone for a while. Finally, he deleted the message. He put the beer in the fridge, checked his watch, and grabbed the keys to the Impala, telling himself he probably needed the distraction anyway (as if he had a choice).

As he drove down the turnpike, he turned on the radio and tuned into a soft rock station. For some reason, soft rock helped him relax. It always had, ever since he was a kid. It was one of those things that his dad should have noticed, but never did. Like how smart Sam was. Or how good at soccer he was. Or how much he wanted him to notice.

But that didn't matter now. John was gone. Sam had experienced more losses in the past month than he had in his entire life, some of which hurt more than others. He'd gotten a solid two weeks off after his father's death, which was generous on Dick's part, and he couldn't really ask for more – even if he really, really needed it. The last thing he wanted to be doing right now was seeing  _people_. Talking to  _people_. He stubbornly refused to let himself feel like he was being forced to do his job, even though he could feel unmerited anger bubbling in his stomach.

He tried to concentrate on the soft rock. It started to make him sleepy, so he turned it to something else, something more modern, with a bass beat to keep him awake. He settled on an upbeat folk rock station, and let it wash into his head, clearing out everything else. He let his fingers drum on the steering wheel and his head bob left to right. He let everything slip away for just a moment, and then something horrible happened.

He ran out of gas.

He should have expected it. He was in the middle of nowhere, on a stretch of highway with nothing but trees in sight. It just  _figured._ But he hadn't prepared, and now he was stuck here with no gas and a ticking clock. It was 10:01, but Sam knew how long it took for things like these to sort themselves out.

Sam pulled over and turned the radio off, closing his eyes and sighing heavily.  _Okay. It's okay. I'll just call Gabriel_ , he told himself calmly. Gabriel could get a company car if he had to. Opening his eyes, he grabbed his cell phone and checked for a signal, then bit the inside of his lip when he saw that he had exactly zero bars.

In spite of this, he typed out a quick text to Gabriel, telling him to tell the boss he ran out of gas and might not make it, and if he could, call him. If the phone wanted to send it, it would send it, and Sam would check it in a few minutes just in case. He was still at 95% battery, so he figured he had time. In the meantime, he had to do something other than sitting on the side of the road waiting for a miracle. So he grabbed his keys and stepped out of the car. He needed his text to send, and for that, he needed to be somewhere where there was a signal.

Resigned, he locked the car, patted his pocket to make sure he still had his phone, and set off down the dusty road.


	4. Flint

Sure, Sam would have loved to travel across the world. He would have loved to see Rome and London and Ireland and other exotic places. But not enough. Getting to anywhere interesting required more than just a car, steady and firmly on the ground – it required an airplane. And that wasn't a sacrifice Sam was willing to make.

He  _knew_  the statistics – he was more likely to die in a car crash than an airplane crash, but the way he saw it, he'd rather die in a car crash. At least it wouldn't involve falling out of the sky at five hundred miles an hour. And being able to do absolutely nothing about it.

Yes, sir, Sam was happy driving. Besides, cars were his thing. In his opinion, nothing was better than hearing the sound of an engine growling beneath him, bending to his every whim, totally under his control. As much as he loved him some Metallica, sometimes he just had to turn off the radio to listen to the engine of his '70 Oldsmobile purr. His girlfriend thought he was crazy. He thought she was just annoyed that he didn't pay attention to her like that.

For him, driving the five hundred miles to Kansas was easy. He had his car, his tapes, and enough money for three weeks of motel rent and fast food. But knowing what to do once he was there was another thing entirely. Vague ideas of library visits and something having to do with releasing public records and lawyers filled his head, but he was putting off making a plan because making a plan would make it real. He wasn't sure if he wanted it to be real yet.

Right now, he was Sam Flint. He had his own business in Chicago and celebrated his birthday on November 4th. He sometimes drank too much and sometimes slept too little, and every once in a while, he liked to visit Sidetrack, a local gay bar. So even if he had no basis for comparison, he knew exactly who he was.

But there were also pieces missing. There were things he didn't know. Things that had always bothered him. Like why he'd always had a problem with drinking, or when his real birthday was, or whether or not the whole sexuality thing was genetic. Did his dad grow facial hair like he did? Did he have his mother's eyes? From which side of the family did he get his freckles, or his blonde hair, or his great taste in music?

A part of him wanted to know – needed to know – but another part, equally strong, cautioned him. It told him that there were things he'd be better off not knowing, and that no matter what he found, he'd probably be disappointed. Knowing would change everything, and he might never be able to go back to being 'Just Sam' again. Who even knew if Sam was his real name? It could have just as easily been a street or a sign or the name of one of the medics that had picked him up on the side of the road or – the name of someone in his family?

He wasn't sure what made him think it, but he had never been one to put too much merit in subconscious thought, so he ignored it. Besides, he had more important things to concentrate on. Like the fact that he had just passed the 'Welcome to Kansas' sign, and his GPS told him he had exactly an hour and sixteen minutes before he was back in the same place he might have been born. Anxiety blossomed in his stomach, and he abruptly wished he'd brought a six pack with him. But he'd already had one DUI and he wasn't eager to have another one, so he pushed down the urge and concentrated on navigating the bumpy stretch of Kansas highway in front of him.


	5. Kansas

After a solid thirty minutes of walking, Sam decided to head back to the Impala. His text had finally sent, and although whether or not Gabriel had received it (or cared) was unknown, he was done. He was dirty, hot, and exhausted, and he knew that walking much further would only be detrimental to both his schedule and his health.

It only took twenty minutes to get back to his car, probably because he didn't have to make any twists and turns he hadn't already made. When he reached it, he touched the windshield to see if it was going to be worth it to try to cool off inside. It burned his palm, so instead he took off his suit jacket and sat on the side of the road.

He sat there for what felt like hours, sweat rolling down his back from sitting in the direct Kansas sunlight. A few cars whirred past, but none of them stopped. After the first seven, he stopped paying attention. Instead, he occupied himself by playing angry birds on his iPhone.

When he first heard the car, his phone read 10:45, and he had been playing for over ten minutes. He didn't pay the car any attention, expecting it to zip past like all the others. But to his surprise, this one broke formation. Sam raised his head and watched it approach, cutting a lazy path through the heat waves that rose from the asphalt.

It rolled to a stop a few feet away from where he was. Sam shut off his phone's display.

"Need some help, man?"

The car windows rolled down, and the man inside of it watched him expectantly.

Sam brought his hand up to his eyes to block out the sun. "Got a siphon?" he called back.

"Ran out of gas, huh?" The man ran his fingers through his hair and clicked his tongue. "Sorry, man, can't help you there." Sam pursed his lips, looking down at the ground. "But I'll trade ya – directions for a ride. Which way are you going?"

"To the airport in Missouri," Sam said hopefully.

The man whistled, and shook his head. "Well that's a bit of a problem, seeing as I'm heading to Lawrence."

Sam visibly deflated.  _Well,_ he thought,  _that's it then. Looks like I'm stuck again._

And then the strangest, most wonderful thing happened.

_His phone vibrated._

'Sammy – looks like the boss is feeling generous today. Said he'd send Fitzy to do the butt-kissing. You're off the hook.'

He stared at the message for a few seconds, and then checked his signal. He still had no bars. Was this… was this what they called luck?

He grinned and looked back up at the man, who miraculously hadn't left. "Actually… looks like I am heading back to Lawrence after all."


	6. Chicago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: I post everything on my ff.net account first, and sometimes I forget to update here. I don't know what /you're/ gonna do about it, but I figured I'd make y'all aware.

Picking up strangers on the side of the road wasn't a habit of Sam's. Living in a big city like Chicago meant thinking of your own safety before the safety of others, and unfortunately most people 'stuck on the side of the road' were either dealing something or looking for something to buy. So really, Sam had no excuse. Except the guy he picked up was smoking hot. Which may not have been the best excuse in the world.

When Sam discovered that the name of his passenger was also, in fact, Sam, he raised the question of what they should call each other. Sam suggested Sammy, but the man didn't take well to that – in fact, it seemed like a sore subject, so Sam dropped it almost immediately. Instead, he decided on calling himself Flint. It wouldn't be that hard to adjust to – after all, it was what everyone in college had called him.

"That's one sweet car you're leaving back there," Flint pointed out as they drove away, looking back at the Impala somewhat forlornly. "I'd be a little bugged if I were you. Hell, it's not even my car and I  _am_  a little bugged."

Sam glanced sidelong at the car through the window. "Eh," he shrugged.

Flint raised his eyebrows. "Eh?" he repeated sarcastically. "That's all you've got?"

Sam shifted around in his seat and made an effort to look somewhat apologetic. "Yeah? I mean, it's not really my car," he clarified. "It's my dad's."

Flint quirked an eyebrow skeptically. "Well, guy's got great taste in cars, I'll give him that," he said with a reserved expression of approval on his face. "That baby's a classic." At that, Sam laughed a little. "What?"

"Nothing, it's just…" Sam trailed off, smiling awkwardly. "Nothing." After a pause, he cleared his throat. "So what are you doing all the way down here in Kansas anyway? Visiting family?"

The question caught him off guard, and suddenly fresh anxiety bubbled up in his stomach. He laughed nervously. "You could say that." Sam looked at him expectantly. Flint fidgeted. "It's kind of a long story."

"Well... Lawrence is still an hour away," Sam prompted. Then he licked his lips and looked away, embarrassed. "But if you don't want to-"

"Nah, it's... fine," Flint interjected. "It's just a little confusing, is all." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Confusing, in his opinion, was a major understatement, but he didn't want to be dumping all his problems on this guy. Still, Sam seemed curious, and Flint figured there was no harm in paraphrasing. "I guess you could say I'm looking for family. I was adopted, see, and some records just got released, so I'm down here trying to put the pieces together."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Wow. That's- wow."

"Yeah," Flint agreed.

"So do you have any idea who you're looking for?" Sam asked slowly. Flint was quiet for a minute.

"Not a friggin' clue."

 

. . .

The more time Flint spent with Sam, the better he liked the guy. They had virtually nothing in common, but together, they were good conversationalists. If there was something Flint didn't know, chances were, Sam did. It was easy to just relax and joke around; besides, Sam took Flint's mind off the impending doom that was  _actually_  reaching Lawrence, Kansas. He almost wished that he had more time to just talk.

Thankfully, the universe had the same idea. With only ten miles left on the GPS, the car made a sound that Flint knew all too well. "Aw, crap," he muttered, staring down at the fuel gauge. "Hey, I'm gonna have to stop for gas."

Sam nodded. They had just hit a town, so it wasn't too hard to find a gas station. Once he spotted one off the side of the road, he did an illegal U-turn in a Denny's parking lot that Sam gave him a disapproving look for and then backed into a spot.

"Let me pay - it's the least I can do," Sam insisted, fumbling around in his jacket pocket.

Flint raised a hand. "Hey, hey, no way. You just sit tight," he ordered, climbing out of the car. Then another thought came to mind, and he ducked his head back into the car with a grin. "But if you wanna make things even, you can pay for drinks later tonight."

Sam stopped fumbling, and shrugged. "I think I can work with that."


	7. I give up on chapter titles

It was a sick feeling he couldn't control. Sometimes he just woke up in the middle of the night feeling like the devil was sitting on his chest, compressing his lungs and making his stomach roll in a mixture of panic and loneliness. For hours afterwards, he wouldn't be able to sleep, and unable to do anything to entertain himself, he simply shut down. Maybe it would have been preferable to wake up to the devil rather than just the cold air that he had to force himself to inhale.

Sometimes the sickness carried into the real world. Gabriel casually dropped language into their conversations that he couldn't know hurt - things about brothers and family and connections. It made him feel like gravity had suddenly increased, making it a hundred times harder to stand, to carry the weight of his own head above his shoulders. And the worst thing was there was no one who could understand - who knew what it felt like to mourn the loss of something you never had.

"You have a brother?"

"I used to."

Telling Flint didn't seem wrong. If anything, it felt like relief. It didn't free him or make it all better, but it managed to stitch together the raw wound somewhere in his chest. The stitches were strained and didn't make the two ends meet entirely, but they were there, and even if they hurt, it was a good kind of pain. The kind that kept you running even when you desperately wanted to stop.

It was a little awkward on Sam's part at first. He wondered if he was coming on too strong, revealing too much too early. He liked Flint, and he didn't want to scare him away talking about his shitty life. But Flint seemed happy enough to take another beer in lieu of an explanation of what happened to Sam's brother, and that was a minor miracle, one that Sam was happy enough to accept.

They spent the night true to their earlier plans of 'drinks' and put away shot after shot until the bartender finally cut them off. Barred from driving, Sam invited Flint home, where he broke out the beers Gabriel had bought him. Though their eyes were trained on the television, for the most part they just talked. It was amazing how comfortable Sam was after just a day of knowing Flint - so comfortable that it made him a little  _un_ comfortable.

Watching Flint relax on the couch brought another thing to mind. "So, where are you staying?" Sam asked casually, kicking his feet onto the coffee table.

"Speedy's, down the road."

"You mean… the motel?" Sam prompted, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah… what's wrong with that?" Flint answered a little defensively.

"No, nothing, but, I mean... a motel?" he repeated somewhat skeptically. "Don't you know what they  _do_  in mo-"

"Hey, man," Flint cut him off abruptly, raising a hand and looking vaguely disturbed. "Don't go there. Just. Don't."

Sam knitted his eyebrows. Then an idea came to mind. "You know," he began almost hopefully, "this couch pulls out."

Flint glanced up at him, clearly surprised, and a little bit flattered. "That... is a very tempting offer, but I'm gonna have to turn you down. Already paid for my room," he explained with a somewhat forlorn smile. "But I'll take a rain check."

. . .

Three hours later, Sam woke up in the middle of the night to the doorbell ringing. Always an easy waker, he immediately rolled out of bed in order to chase away whoever thought it was acceptable to ring his doorbell at half past midnight. He was half-expecting Gabriel when he opened the door with a little more force than was necessary, but was pleasantly jarred when he saw he had been mistaken.

"Flint," he greeted his impromptu visitor curiously. "What- what are you doing here?"

Flint grinned up at him. "Hey, Sammy," he said with a wink. "That couch still pull out? Because I think I'll take that rain check now."


End file.
